Fate's Intervention
by Corvus no Genmu
Summary: "Would you heed me for my wisdom? Would you listen to me and welcome my experience? Would you fear me for my power? Would you move aside or stand beside me and bring an End to the Apocalypse? ... No. You will not. For as much as humanity has grown, some habits do not die so easily. So if I alone cannot convince you, then I shall call upon those who can."
1. A Word of Warning

**Disclaimer:** All respected characters and properties belong to their owners.

* * *

 **Fate's Intervention**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

 _A Word of Warning, A Promise of a Lifetime  
_

* * *

It started with a sound of static. Short enough to not be an annoyance but loud enough to gather attention. The image sharpened into a dark and virtually empty room but for a single hanging lamp that swings slowly back and forth. The pale light does little to illuminate the small space but for the lone table beneath its beam and the young man sitting behind it. He sat with a tired slouch, his elbows resting upon the table and bandaged hands clasped before his face. The lenses of his glasses gleamed whenever the light shone across his face and his hair was hidden beneath the hood of a threadbare sweatshirt.

"Hero. Someone who commits an act of remarkable bravery, one who has shown an admirable quality such as insurmountable courage or strength of character, or one who is famous for possessing extraordinary gifts to protect and to serve." He reached out and tapped the table and a chess piece, a Knight white as freshly fallen snow on Christmas morning, appeared with a soft sound of an unearthly sigh.

"Sometimes a hero embodies all three definitions. Sometimes just one. Whichever element a hero is, there can be no argument that a hero is a guardian, a shield, to those who cannot protect themselves."

His opposite hand reached out and snapped his fingers loudly, summoning forth a chess piece black as the heart of a terrible midnight storm and a ebony crown with which to rule as a King upon its brow.

"Villain. An evil individual who oftentimes serves as the antithesis to the hero, a contemptible person regarded as evil who has committed crimes against their fellow man for their own personal gain. Just the same as a hero, a villain too can possess great power but where a hero can act responsibly, a villain holds no such limitations. They stand tall and proud, heedless and reckless of the terror they inflict on the common folk for they do not see themselves as protectors but as rulers."

A third chess piece appeared on the table between the White Knight and the Black King without the lad's beckoning. A piece that was neither white nor black but a perfect balance of the two, a sword in one hand and a crown upon the brow of a Grey Queen.

"Yet there is always the third player in this game of good and evil, in this senseless war between the Light and the Dark. They who commit acts of sin, staining their hands and their very souls, so that good may overcome the crimes they commit in its name. Those who know that sometimes, the only way to destroy evil are to become it. That the greatest acts, good and evil alike, require sacrifice, but unless it's self-sacrifice, evil is not destroyed. It is merely moved about. So they gladly allow the guillotine of the masses to fall upon their bared necks, just so that another innocent soul needn't do the same."

He leaned forward once more, balancing his chin upon the back of his intertwined hands.

"Each and every one of you, from the greatest heroes to the most wretched of villains, from the innocent and powerless to the damned and powerful… You are all so blind, so deaf, and so utterly ignorant to what is happening to the World. The Infection continues to delve deeper into Her Heart while the Parasites fester unseen. Each and every one of you, from the weak to the powerful, you are all a part of the most Ancient and most Powerful of Games. Conflict."

The table warped and changed as he pushed himself up to his feet. It became like a chessboard but one that was of utter impossibility for though it had not visibly grown, it bore an incredible vastness that exceeded well beyond the boundaries of the tiny ill-lit room. Chess pieces littered across it in a chaotic cataclysm of mish-mashing colors and shapes, white stood as unmoving legions, black as encroaching waves, and pockets of gray merely strived to move freely between the two.

"Conflict. Warfare between opposing forces, especially prolonged and bitter but nonetheless a sporadic struggle between ideas, principles, and people. Humanity as a species has always been a Child of Conflict. We were born and raised by it and for every hardship thrown at us by our fellow man and powers above and below, we overcame them, we surpassed them."

The board itself was composed of squares of white and black but for every instance that any piece met against another, no matter what color it wore or the shape it bore, the square beneath burned a bloodied shade of red that swelled outwards in a massive gush of bloodied waves. Those pieces towered over others, monoliths to meek figures and for as many that were saved, a great many more were drowned in crimson tides.

"But what happens when you raise humanity higher than the Heavens, grant unto them the powers of the gods, to bring Hell itself to the Surface of the World…? Well, the Conflicts of Humanity become something more than legendary myths and ancient histories doesn't it? Especially when one considers the lone piece that stays off the board."

The one lone piece that bore the same color as its own and was fully impossible to identify, appearing one moment as a pawn and the next a king, visibly swelled as the red tide continued to consume the chessboard below. It made no move to interfere with the battlefields below but there was no mistaking its keen observation with how it lingered above the greater conflicts.

"As a shield, I can protect you, but is it my responsibility alone to guide you to your own salvation, to hold your hands tightly in my own in prayer to the very gods that were slain so long ago? As a sword, I can enforce my will, but is it my right to drag you away from your stumbling path towards damnation, to force you down on bended knees?"

The young man walked in a slow circle, looking thoughtfully up at the swaying light bulb as though the answer could be sought in its faint rays. When it soon became obvious that none was forthcoming, he stopped, staring straight into the eyes of those who were watching in muted silence, the lenses of his glasses glaring like muted suns.

"Would you heed me for my wisdom? Would you listen to me and welcome my experience? Would you fear me for my power? Would you move aside or stand beside me and bring an End to the Apocalypse?"

He started to smile once more but it was far more dangerous than the previous one. A touch of deranged madness here a bit of primordial ferocity there and a whole lot of self-derision to top it off. He leaned in close across a now mundane and empty table, revealing at last the truth of his eyes beneath the reflective lenses. One eye was an ordinary if not vibrant shade of blue whilst the other was a shining gold orb upon which was inscribed something that shone with rainbow hued intensity.

"No. You will not. For as much as humanity has grown, some habits do not die so easily. So if I alone cannot convince you, then I shall call upon those who can."

Symbols and shapes that could not be and yet were lay upon that golden eye and though not a soul who saw them could even begin to guess what manner of ancient script they were, they knew however innately what sole word was inscribed upon the lad's eye.

 **F A T E**


	2. A Nightmare Eternal

**Disclaimer:** All respected characters and properties belong to their owners.

* * *

 **Fate's Intervention**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

 _A Man of Shadows, A Nightmare Eternal  
_

* * *

He moved without any concern or worry. For who was there that could inspire such feelings in the likes of a Servant such as he? A Man of Shadows, his masked gaze forlorn with trails of violet tears down an otherwise pristine white mask. Yet the facsimile of a smile was as real as real could be.

Since Time Immemorial, He has existed and His would be among the last when Creation would reach its Ultimate End. He had been the first to be drawn to them, to the humans that harnessed Imagination to create whole worlds with mere words and thoughts.

He had listened to the Tales, to the Stories, and somewhere, in that Time Immemorial, He and the Others like Him were changed. To try and understand humanity, to try and harness the same Imagination as they, He and the Others had begun to mimic them. He had been the first to realize the mistake, but by then it was too late.

What was pale mimicry became almost perfect imitation. Without notice, He had begun to think like the humans that interested Him so. He had begun to have similar emotions as they. He had begun to Think, which in itself was not entirely a bad thing, but Feeling came soon afterward and on its coattails rode Emotion with the strongest of them all at the fore. He had become corrupted by Desire, the irresistible yearning to feel as humanity feels, to experience Creation as they do.

So it was that he became a Man of Shadows. That is what humans see when they look at him. The humans whose eyes still shine with the power of Belief, to see the mysteries that once encircled the World like a mother's embrace. That is what they see. That is what they believe Him to be.

They think of Him as human. That is what they believe.

How wrong they are.

He had been called to this body, one of many that He had worn in His eons, to fulfill a purpose. He had been conscribed into a shell, a mere puppet, because the World could no longer accept Him as He Was for He Himself could not remember What He Was only What He Is.

In the eons, He had many names. Many titles.

That Which Goes Bump in the Night, The 13th Stroke of the Witching Hour, The Lord of Nightmares, the Monster Under the Bed… Lovely titles and fanciful words with which to describe Him but such is not what He names Himself at present.

Assassin.

* * *

Sophia Hess knew of karma. Knew it and spat on it and all that it encompassed. She did not believe in it and why should she? Criminals ran the streets, the pathetic vermin still lived when they were better off dead, and the strong had to tolerate a shared existence with the inferior weaklings. So know, she did not believe in retribution from a higher power because there was no power on this Earth that could stop her if she well and truly put her mind to it. She was Strong. She was a Predator.

There was no way that she was being hunted.

But in the back of her mind, where traitorous whispers of the old Sophia, the weak little child, still lingered she knew otherwise. That old her still spoke out against the thing that she had become, the Shadow Stalker that she was in costume and outside it and lately, the words had begun to change, the voice, once nothing more than a gentle whisper lost into the oblivion of the subconscious mind, was growing louder.

Fiercer.

Angrier.

She thought it was Taylor's fault at first. The girl that Sophia knew was Easy Prey, and had personally turned the majority of the school, students and faculty alike, against with damned ease. Sophia and her pack, for never were they friends merely underlings strong enough to stand beside her but never atop the same pedestal, had done many a horrible thing to Taylor. True, it was Sophia who had done the absolute worst but was it not Emma that suggested those very ideas? Was it not Emma, Taylor's former best friend, who supplied the poisoned barbs that armed Sophia's tongue and inspired her actions?

Actions that were now being stopped at every turn, with her own words being turned back upon her with equal if not greater prejudice in every possible form, from spray paint on her locker both in and outside the school, to even a remixed video on the 'net. The pranks and traps she could have blamed Taylor for, and did so with growing anger for quite some time, but it wasn't until she became directly confrontational that she discovered the prey's meat-shield.

Some no-name kid from out in the Midwest who was quite tall for his age, easily a head taller than Taylor, and Sophia would have called him lanky, a veritable scarecrow but he had skills to make him more than Easy Prey. It had to be him who had alleviated the worst of her actions against Taylor and it had to be him who was stalking her now. There could be no one else.

There just couldn't be.

She had seen the toy that he had given Taylor as a belated Christmas gift, a small plush animal that looked like a cartoony beetle, and Sophia had tried time and time again take it, to destroy it, and to shove the remains in Taylor's face. Except that each and every time she closed in on the damn thing, it was never where it was supposed to be and when it did turn up, it was clutching something of Taylor's in its velvety claws.

It wouldn't be so worrying if those things were what Sophia or her pack had simply stolen but the damn doll had turned up on Taylor's desk with her mother's flute in its grubby little claws in a pose that gave the idea that it was attempting to play a jolly old tune! A flute that was pristine and whole as the day it was first made when Sophia and her pack knew it could not be.

Sophia fucking hated that little toy.

But she fucking hated hers much more.

Taylor's idiot boyfriend thought her hateful glares were one of envy and so presented her with a toy of her own, right in front of everyone— and made such a show of it too god-damn it! She was too surprised, too enraged to do anything more than gape at him as he shoved the plush toy of a chicken, a goddamned _chicken_ , in her hands. Goddamn, the thing even had a fucking bib for fuck's sake!

It didn't take her long to tear the thing to pieces and burn the remains in a trashcan.

The words she used to express her displeasure at finding the thing sitting in her locker and completely undamaged earned her a week of detention that not even her probation officer could get her out of. Didn't matter that she expanded the school's vocabulary and that a good majority of the goody-goody sheep were now against her. She gave the doll to Emma and told her to do what she wanted with it before storming off towards detention.

She found the toy sitting at her desk and Emma in the hospital recovering from a broken arm from a tumble down the stairs after she had thrown the thing into her fireplace. The thing had reappeared whole and unnoticed at the top of the staircase, causing Emma to trip over it the next morning. The pain of her broken arm didn't stop the girl from noticing the fact that the toy was looking down at her, its smile as wide as ever.

And so it went for weeks, Sophia attempting to get rid of the toy and it following her everywhere she went, causing misfortune to everyone that dared to try and take it away from her. Bad enough that it kept turning up in odd places at school —it had been fucking sitting on the toilet she was going to use before she flushed its fabric ass down the drain— but it was even turning up where the loser Wards could see it! Fucking Armsmaster had commented on her apparent dependency on the damn thing and told her outright that she would be receiving psychiatric evaluation if she didn't get leave it at home where it belonged!

She had beaten many an ABB and E88 gang member that night, to such a point that she was sure that the pansy Panacea had to be called in to treat them. Her frustrations only rose from the decidedly one-sided beatings she had dealt out, and so she had gone to the rooftops to find more prey.

The toy was sitting there, waiting for her.

Except now, in the light of the waxing moon, she realized just what everyone else had been saying, comments and words that she readily ignored in favor of ridding herself of the toy's presence in as violent a way as possible. The chicken was whole and otherwise undamaged but it was clearly different than when she first got it. Before, it was a cutesy little chick with bright eyes and a big toothy grin on its stupid little face.

It still had the teeth but where they were rectangular and flat as boards, they were triangular fangs, no two-ways about it. It eyes, a brilliant blue, were now completely and utterly black save for a single pinprick of white that sat dead center in the orbs and yet seemed to follow her as she moved. Its bib was stained with ichor and the cartoony little cupcake it was holding had changed its expression from sappily optimistic to a rather feral visage.

"The fuck is this?!" she grabbed the toy and shook it in her hands. "You… You're some kind of demented tinker tech contraption aren't you, you little shit?! You think you can scare me?! You think that you can intimidate me with your lame ass disappearing and reappearing act!?"

The fang-lined beak opened wide and unleashed a horrendous noise that was not fully a human scream as it was an electronic distortion of one. She dropped the thing without a scream but her lip paid the price with how hard she bit down on them to prevent the sound from escaping her throat. She licked away the blood and raised her crossbow at the toy and wasn't all that surprised to find it missing once more.

"Great. Maybe I'm fucking hallucinating now."

RING! RI—!

She whirled in place, arrows flying from her crossbow and piercing through the desk, the telephone, and into the walls of the small office.

"The hell—?!" She turned around again and found another wall to her back and only two doors out of the small office space she inexplicably found herself in. A shining red button sat beneath a lonely white switch beside each door. She pressed the switch briefly and saw a small portion of a long hallway light up before succumbing to darkness once more the moment she pulled her hand away. "The fuck is going on here?! You tinker bastard, is this some sort of game to you messing with me like this?!"

A tablet sitting upon the desk suddenly lit up. Crossbow clutched tightly in her hand, she looked down at the screen and saw a real-time video of another room. A stage where two animatronic animals stood still as stone with a large banner hanging limply above them with the words WELCOME TO FRE just barely visible in the screen. She looked up towards the right door where she heard a faint sound of footsteps.

She scoffed and made to turn to shadows. A moment passed and her pupils shrank to pinpricks. She couldn't shift. Shadow Stalker tried again and found it impossible still and in her rising anger —not panic, she wasn't afraid not ever she was a predator a predator god damn it— she never noticed the sound of approaching footsteps, of steel stepping heavily upon tile flooring, drawing nearer.

She loosed a frustrated cry and turned to run through the open doorway and came face-to-bib with a familiar but all too different sight with kitchen knife in metallic hands. Her scream, loud and shrill though it was, was nothing compared to that of the animatronic as it lunged in for the kill.

Sophia was still screaming as she snapped up in her bed, eyes wide and clutching tightly upon the blanket like it was a lifeline. She looked about sharply, wide, fearful eyes taking in the familiar sights of her room as her breathing slowed to steady gasps of air. A faint sting of pain brought a hand to her shoulder and she felt a warm wetness trickle down her chest. She flicked on her bedside lamp and raw terror clamped tightly around her throat.

Sitting atop her drawer was the toy, whole and new as the day she first got it but for one tiny difference. The cupcake was gone, replaced by a miniature replica of a freshly sharpened knife that dripped droplets of red upon the hardwood.

Her eyes grew wide whilst her pupils shrank fine pinpricks in an ivory field and quivering in her ashen skull. At her bedside, the clock turned to 2:00 AM, several hours yet until the dawn and the end of the night, but so long as the Shadows stretched imploringly out from around hidden corners, she would never know peaceful slumber again. For the night may come to an end, but the Nightmare was far from over. For this was but merely…

The First Night…


	3. A Heart May Conquer

**Disclaimer:** All respected characters and properties belong to their owners.

* * *

 **Fate's Intervention**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

 _A Heart May Conquer_

* * *

Director Emily Piggot was not one to admit to weakness. Her kidneys all but destroyed, the muscles in her legs barely in enough pieces to allow her to stand let alone walk, and not once would she be seen flinching in pain. Not ever would she succumb to temptation and ask for help by those willing and capable of it. Yet now, more than ever before and certainly not for the first or last time, did she desire such aid if only so she could partake in something that contained a substantial amount of alcohol.

It had been all of five days since the Messenger, as both official and unofficial channels had taken to calling him though Director Piggot had a far more vulgar name for him, had made his declaration to the world. Since then, she had been dealing with a damn near literal shit storm the likes of which left her utilizing words that she was sure most of the Wards searching dictionaries for their proper definitions.

It had begun with Shadow Stalker's confession, if one could call the girl having a full blown mental breakdown in the midst of a training session with the other Wards. Reviewing the security footage and hearing the witnessed accounts of the other Wards, it had apparently been the result of Shadow Stalker spotting a plush toy sitting in the midst of the training mats. A toy that security footage had shown was not there until Shadow Stalker had entered the room and had disappeared the moment she had her breakdown.

It took both Miss Militia and Armsmaster working together to subdue the girl and even then, it had required more than a liberal use of sedation to get her to calm down enough to be understood and her words, tearstained and frightened for her very life, did not earn her any sympathies from Director Piggot.

Not when the girl had admitted to breaking her parole at every opportunity, not when she had openly stated that she had been actively trying to commit murder in the first degree to a villain who had no strikes to his name, and especially not when she all but confessed to brutally tormenting a girl, a normal human, for over a year to such a degree that said girl had ended up in the hospital.

Director Piggot liked to think herself a fair woman. She made it no secret that she hated parahumans and thought nothing more than children playing with fire. Yet, for all her distaste, for all her aggravation, Director Piggot was a fair woman. She followed the unwritten rules to the letter and did her damnedest to cut through all the political red tape that constantly kept her from utilizing her forces to their full potential.

She had accepted Shadow Stalker because of her abilities and had made the mistake of not keeping as close an eye on the girl, as she should have. A mistake that she immediately rectified with all of her power and more besides because mere words from a frantic parahuman were enough to earn the ire of the Director of the Brockton Bay PRT.

The hospital records earned Shadow Stalker her full and undivided wrath.

By its own volition, the music box on her desk began to play. Problem was, she didn't own a music box. In the back of her mind, Piggot faintly recognized the musical tones of the song when the music box suddenly cut itself off. She flinched, honestly expecting it to explode or worse when the lid suddenly popped open to reveal a bone white mask nestled within. A mask that bore a large grin despite the violet tears that trailed down from its eyes.

A mask that steadily arose steadily upwards as a Man of Shadows stood from the depths of the music box. The lights in Piggot's office exploded one after the other as the storm outside roared with another blast of lightning and thunder.

She did not flinch.

Not even when the velvet clawed hands were on her shoulders and His gimlet stare mere inches from her own. She looked into the eyeholes of His bone white mask and saw a nothing but Darkness in the depths. His grip tight enough to have her attention but loose enough to allow her to breathe despite the sheer frigidness of the touch; He brought His masked face close to her ear and whispered softly into it.

Lightning flashed once more and Director Piggot found herself sitting in her extremely well lit office and her phone and computer sitting alone atop her desk. She was about to pass it off as a mild hallucination. A brief bout of insanity brought on from a severe lack of sleep and far too much work these past several days. Not for the first time and definitely not the last, Director Piggot craved a stiff drink.

Especially when her computer pinged her once more that Chief Director Costa-Brown had sent out another PRT-wide email in regards to the Messenger and the first of his… She reread the line of text once more with a small frown.

"Servants? Who's the idiot who came up with that?" She wondered aloud before closing the email. In the end, it didn't matter. The Chief Director's sudden obsession with the Messenger and his oddly named Servants could wait. She had far bigger priorities to worry about after all. And so Director Emily Piggot went back to work, all the while singing softly under her breath.

"I've got no strings and now I'm free…"

The Assassin standing in her shadow smiled beneath His masked visage. " _There are no strings on me._ "

* * *

The room was a survivor of multiple fires, vandalism, and Near outright obliteration with numerous holes, small as a mouse to as large as a man's fist, decorating the floor, walls, and even a rather noteworthy spot up in the ceiling, just past the precariously hanging fan. If it were capable of speech, you'd best believe that most if not the entirety of its words would consist of numerous cusses and slurs with the attitude to match. It had seen a lot of things for all of its short life of a mere hundred or so odd years.

Yet it had never seen anything the likes of the Messenger.

He sat in a broken chair in the farthest corner of the room though that was a stretch of the word. He was slouched over one arm like a ragdoll tossed haphazardly aside by an uninterested child. His breathing was labored, his every gasp pained and every sigh one of relief. His one true eye was staring listlessly at nothing but the other?

Oh but how it shined with Power and tears of blood.

"You should have waited." A hand pressed a wet cloth upon his cheek, wiping away the bloodied trails. "A few days more at least."

"Time," He grunted as he pushed him more upright, waving aside her argument, "was one ally I could not win to our cause"

"Yes, so I have seen." Her response was equal parts bemused and sarcastic, but it got a small smile from the Messenger so she supposed that was a victory in her favor. "I'd be impressed at your results if they didn't prove so costly. Fear makes a powerful ally but that one… How much did you have to pay for one such as that?"

"Equivalent Exchange," he took a deep, pained breath, "is as much a bitch as Karma in my humble opinion."

"So I have learned." The cloth in her perfectly manicured hands so soft and gentle suddenly rendered coarse in a steadily tightening grip. Her answering smile, a piece of Perfection only the gods of old could hope to mimic, was without conviction. There was no happiness in her eyes. There hadn't been since the first moment where immortal hands played at the strings of her heart all those centuries ago.

He managed enough strength to stand on his feet and make his way to the sole window to the outside world. He leaned against the windowsill, peering out past the surprisingly pristine glass and out towards the city skyline of the night.

He never understood why it was that the Night was feared, if not reviled, by so many still in this modern era. Monsters can lie in wait within the shadows true, but so do Mysteries and Wonders that cannot be met in the light of Day. The pale light of the moon, an ever vigilant eye gazing lazily down upon the mortals below, watching the histories of mankind through the ages. Yet, as a species, humanity has always feared the Dark and fought against it any way they could since they mastered fire, the most versatile of the elements.

Here, in the heart of this most wretched of cities, their attempts have failed. Oh yes, there is still plenty of light here and what few stars that can pierce this artificial veil pale in comparison to the brilliance of mankind's ingenuity. Yes from near the top of the highest tower in the city, Brockton Bay could almost be mistaken as Heaven being brought down to the Earth, man's light shining in near perfect mimicry of the sky.

But Brockton Bay is no Heaven.

It's a Hell of its own design.

A city that's slowly but surely self-destructing on itself with gang wars, racism, and monsters both literal and figurative pulling the strings from the dark and the light. In time, this place would become a ruin, a scar upon the Earth when the Leviathan would arise from the depths of the World's Oceans and bring to fore the full force of the seas.

And though Time was no ally of his, he had others to call on.

"I suppose that I should get going then? Monsters to save and all that, yes?" She asked with an air of one discussing the weather rather than the saving of countless lives. He had expected it of her for she, much like the Assassin before her, was never any such thing as a Hero in the strictest definition of the word.

If anything, she was a Victim. A Plaything to the whims of the forgotten gods that delighted in the pulling of strings and the games they played with mortal lives. A part of him missed their absence from this era, for while it may have been infamously known as the Age of the Gods, so too was it the Age of Heroes.

And this World was in desperate need of them, now more than ever in that misbegotten era of turmoil and strife.

He continued to stare out into the city as he spoke to the other sole occupant of the devastated room. "I know that you do not think that the task I have given you one worth your time or efforts. In point of fact, given what you are capable of, one could say it's beneath you to even try. But there is no one else I know that can do this."

She tilted her head at him, long locks of hair trailing down over one shoulder as she regarded him with a shrewd stare. "I am not so arrogant to think that I am the greatest that there has ever been in my craft and you have proven adept at calling upon those of a more… unique… persuasion."

He turned to her then, his face an unreadable mask as he regarded her for a long, silent moment. "Because I trust you to do the right thing."

Her shoulders stiffened at his words but her face remained in its mask of indifference. "You claim to know me. Who I am and what I have done. Was that all a lie?"

The Messenger shook his head. "I may not speak the Truth outright but I don't lie. I know you. Perhaps more than you know yourself."

She bristled at that, her face sneering into a scowl. She could not believe his arrogance. "Then if you are so knowledgeable, you know that I will not take your words at face value. Any of them."

He smiled and she took an apprehensive step back. A smile such as that was not one she had seen for a very, very long time and did not belong on the face of a stranger. It belonged with family, with friends, to those close and dear to her heart, and not on the one who dragged her back to this world to aid those who could not help themselves.

"I trust you," He said once more. The light above flickered and in between the darkness and the light, he was gone. She stared at the spot that he had stood for a long moment in silence before she too disappeared though not without a subtle blowing of wind and the flaring light of magic.

* * *

If there was one thing that Noelle Meinhardt knew with absolute certainty it was that the very heart of Hell itself awaited her. The only close second to this was a fact, a cold and unyielding truth. That she was a monster the likes of which could never be redeemed, could not be saved from the damnation she set upon herself by a single, solitary mistake. A part of her was human still, her upper body and perhaps some semblance of what remained of her heart but that was all that was left. The rest of her was hideous, horrendous, and every bit the stuff of nightmares.

So here she was, in a chamber, a prison, of her own choosing though Francis said many a time it was no such thing and to never think of it as such. Francis… Her friends… They were all that kept the humanity in her alive, the memories that her monstrous body allowed her to recall mere fragments of wood awash in a sea of blood. What she could remember of who she had been and what she had were minute to what whispered to her in the back of her mind, what came to the forefront every time she closed her eyes.

Noelle knew that it was not her fault, that her monstrous form possessed a consciousness, a will, of its own but that did not abstain her from the crimes it had committed. Her hands were red with the blood she had purposefully allowed to be spilled and for what? For clarity in near forgotten memories of a life she could no longer have? For the sweet, blessed silence from the ever-growing grumblings of hunger that ravaged her gargantuan form at every moment?

Francis assured her that the gate was for her protection that the chamber was nigh impenetrable by anything short of an Endbringer and more besides to keep her safe. She loved him then and loved him still but even love could not blind her to his lies. For though she tried her hardest to ignore it, to fight it, Noelle's monstrous form was ensnared deeply by an insatiable hunger, a ravenous need for consumption. She had to be fed close to an hourly basis and with ever increasing quantities or what little of her human side remained would be lost to the ravenous rampages of a hellion beast.

The other Travelers knew this.

So did Francis no matter how deep he buried the knowledge.

Noelle knew it too.

The camera that was attached to the ceiling above her flickered into motion, a tiny red light shining as the sound of static emanated from the hidden speakers in the room before a voice that she did not recognize addressed her by name. She turned her head to face the monitor placed just beneath the camera and saw nothing but static.

"Noelle? Can you hear me?"

"Yes…" She murmured, her voice rough and grating to her ears. She swallowed reflexively, ignoring the insistent murmur to quench her thirst with something warm and red, "Who is this…?"

"Ah, Francis didn't tell you? No, I suppose he didn't, Coil has him and the others running ragged these days, yes? Something to do about paying for your —ahem— luncheons?"

Noelle repressed a grimace as something that was neither tentacle nor tail lashed out and with grinding teeth crunched down upon a piece leftover from her last meal. She had only just eaten minutes ago and already she could feel the pangs of hunger. She'd need to call for another meal soon, one preferably much larger and livelier than a pig to sate her hideousness.

She pushed down the faint rumblings and did her best to focus on what was, or rather wasn't, right in front of her. "There's something wrong with the camera… I can't see you."

"Ah, I'm afraid it's the same on this end. A technical error that we'll have to deal with for now." The speaker was a woman by the sound of her voice, probably a few years older than she was. "I'm afraid that I am rather pressed for time at the moment so please allow me to be frank. I believe that I have a means of curing you of your affliction."

She froze. Every monstrous tendril and misshapen limb, every twitching eye, every gaping maw slavering with drool, every piece of her, human and monster alike, stiffened at the girl's words as something sparked in her that she hadn't felt in a long time… A feeling called…

It was called…

It was… called…?

…?

 _Oh God, I can't even remember what this feeling is anymore…!_

Ignorant of Noelle's horrified realization, the young girl behind the door continued, "But first I need you to clarify some things for me, Noelle. I had spoken with Francis and the others but I need your side of it too and you must be completely honest with me. Do you understand?"

"Yes… yes… whatever you need, just please… Please…." She chewed on her lip, her and the multitude of other mouths. What could she say?

 _Help me?_

 _Save me?_

Such words were unbefitting when used towards a monster damned to the Black Heart of Hell. A stray thought tickled at her mind, a memory of a human life once lived, and a game that she loved to hate just for the constant pain of tapping at a mouse and keyboard until her fingers nearly bled. She wondered for a moment if they'd welcome her like some lost sibling, those Prime Evils that ruled over the Hells Below…

"Noelle? Noelle, can you hear me?"

She shook her head. _Focus… Focus,_ ** _goddamn_** _it._ "Yes…"

"As I see it there are two options of ending this state you're in. One is, as I'm sure you can guess, deadly in its application. It will kill you as little else in this world can. That is, if you'd rather die as a human being, by your own choice, rather than succumbing entirely to the thing attached to you. All it will take is one, single shot from a rather… specialized type of ammunition. One shot, and the nightmare will be over, Noelle."

Noelle swallowed, her arms hugging her middle tightly as she once more imagined the embrace of Death about her person and the shrieking screams that accompanied such thoughts that tried to drown them out. The shrieking always won before and was already winning now as she whispered just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, "What's the second option…?"

"The second option is getting you full and absolute control over your powers. The means of doing so is simple in its application. You need only to consume the rest of the Travellers and take their combined powers into yourself, which will stabilize your own."

For a long moment, she did not move, her brain sluggishly trying to process what the man was saying, to put the words and make them into a cognitive thought.

"… What?"

"The vials weren't meant to be taken separately by different individuals. There were prototypes so to speak. An experiment to see if a combination of abilities could be split amongst individuals safely. It had a one in six chance of failing, and quite spectacularly at that. It was poor luck that it was you who drew that straw really."

 _Luck?_ It was **L** _ **U**_ **C** _ **K**_ that she was **L** _ **I**_ **K** _ **E**_ **T** _ **H**_ **I** _ **S**_ **?** _ **!**_

Her tendrils and hideously thick limbs started to thrash with her rising rage when the woman behind the door continued.

"Your friend Marissa for example would have been wholly incapable of controlling the size of her suns and one would have either expanded to match the one already present in our solar system or have contracted down into a black hole. Either way, the complete and utter destruction of this planet and everyone on it would be assured.

"Jess could be stuck in a coma-like state as her powers force her to create a new body every time she loses physical consciousness. However, considering that her powers work only when her body is unconscious, she'd eventually be driven insane from being incapable of sleeping as her mind would be in a constant state of activity without peace or rest."

She clamped her hands over her ears. She didn't want to hear this, didn't want to even imagine this happening to her friends, her family, but the girl behind the door was relentless.

"Luke's control over motion would lack any sense of control to such a point that even his very breath would be capable of cannon-like force. He'd lack the necessary control to allow him to touch anything or anyone and he'd eventually die of dehydration or hunger. That is of course if he didn't end up leveling everything and everyone nearby.

"As for Francis… Well, I suppose I've already said enough."

She did. So much so that she didn't need to anymore. Noelle had been a professional gamer once, and earning such a degree of skill was not without its cost. She had played many a game, many a story, and could easily surmise what would happen to Francis if he lacked any control over his powers. Anything and everything that even remotely possessed a similar mass would be teleported to and fro at his gaze, even Francis himself. He'd be the titular Traveller, caught in a constant state of motion so long as his eyes were open…

Noelle didn't think that she could loathe herself more. The man's words proved her wrong. Still… She had to know for certain. "Are you telling me there is no other way to fix this…?"

"There is nothing from this Earth capable of it, no. So? Which will it be, Noelle? Will you become whole and live a normal"

"… Are they out there right now? My friends?"

"They are."

Even with her mind buried and befuddled by warring instincts of humanity and monstrosity, Noelle recognized what the woman was not saying. Her friends were there but were somehow incapacitated. She loved them, each and every one of them, but there was no way that any one of them would simply stand there and let her devour them even if it meant granting her control over the monster her body had become.

Francis would, but he was a fool in love and love made you do some pretty stupid, and oftentimes, selfish things.

How she loved him. How she loved all of them… Did that make it okay? Was it really okay for her to be selfish? Her body trembled not with emotion but a want, a need as ancient as Life itself.

"Do it. Open the door."

She was hungry and talking was doing little to sate a monstrous appetite. She swallowed reflexively, shivering and heaving in the same instant for how much she drooled, however unwillingly, at the thought of consumption.

"And make sure that one shot counts…"

The doors didn't open. She frowned, looking up at the monitor. The red light was still on, still transmitting, so why didn't her savior answer her plea?

"Can you hear me? … Kill me…"

Nothing.

"Kill me!" She screamed, human hands clutching tightly upon her shoulders as something wet and watery fell from her eyes. She did not remember what they were called and didn't care to try and recollect the lost knowledge.

She wanted the nightmare to be over.

She wanted to die.

"KILL ME!" Tendrils lashed at the walls, the ceiling, and everywhere in between. The multitude of mouths, slavering with saliva and gnashing teeth, roared a discordant chorus to match the human voice and soon drowned it out entirely with their own hideous sounds.

" _ **KILLMEKILLMEKILLMEKILLME!**_ "

The door opened to reveal an unlit hallway.

Silence.

"kill me…"

A whisper, some could call it but for her, it was so much more.

It was a prayer of hope.

A prayer that was answered by a sudden flash of pastel steel, curved and jagged like a bolt of lightning. She saw it all its glorified details for it was there, pointed tip buried into her breast where a human heart was pierced. She looked down at the blade, trembling hands grasping the hilt tightly but did not deign to remove it.

Instead, she looked out to the darkness of the world beyond her cage and smiled. Her head bobbed weakly in thanks as she gathered the breath to utter her last words.

"I love you… all of you… Remember that… please…"

She pushed the blade in deeper and the darkness tittering at the edge of her gaze came crawling forward like an approaching storm. She fell back with a thunderous crash but did not loosen her grip upon the dagger that pierced her heart even as the tendrils and limbs clawed and swiped and lashed at her. She bit hard upon her bottom lip until it bled to keep from screaming out in agony even as the mouths roared and shrieked and bellowed. The many eyes swirled in their sockets, closing slowly one by one until her own remained wide and unafraid of the encroaching darkness.

She remembered the word now.

Tears.

They were called tears.

The monster that once was a girl closed her eyes for the last time.

* * *

 _To Be Continued..._


	4. A Matter of Life & Death

**Disclaimer:** All respected characters and properties belong to their owners.

* * *

 **Fate's Intervention**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

 _A Matter of Life & Death_

* * *

Terror roamed the streets, tickling upon the spines of passerby and urged them to quicken their pace lest careful touches become much more worrying. Horror ran upon the winds, carrying forth a wintry chill that pierced through stone and steel alike. Nightmare stalked the alleyways and whispered dread to life amidst the shadows.

Fear ruled with an iron grip and the Assassin bore the crown with regal geniality upon His masked visage.

It had been many eons since last He played upon the World. Oh, what delights He had forgotten in those long ago ages, when dreaming nightmares and bittersweet reality were one and the same to the eyes of mankind. In an age where dragons lay in waiting upon unwritten borders, and when gods still roamed the Earth.

Time, never a friend to Man, was at least cordial to a fellow Embodiment. Especially one bound to the mortal conception of Servitude. Seconds became Minutes and Minutes became Hours. A solitary Night became like an everlasting Nightmare in the tangled skeins that wove between the Assassin's fingers. Every strand a Figment, and together woven into a Dream. He was a puppeteer in every sense of the word and from the heart of this most wretched of cities, He was connected to them all.

The Terrors, the Horrors, and the Nightmares. Each and every one of them a Creation of Himself, a Fragment of the Whole, and as the city became rampant with fear, so too did the Assassin's power grow even as His physical form waned. Did this stop Him from delighting in His own merriments?

NEVER.

Head tilting back and arms outstretched in a wide, welcoming embrace to the Moon above, the Assassin's eyes shone with a violet hued ferocity. His mask bore a perpetual smile but what geniality that once lay upon its ivory surface was gone. It had become warped and morphed to be both impossibly wide and quite clearly born of rage instead of mirth.

Strings, thin and nearly invisible even to the sharpest of eyes, spooled forth from the clawed tips of the Assassin's spindly fingers. They whirled, contorted, and danced to the tiniest of motions and were slowly conforming into a new shape, a fresh existence.

A Terror.

By the time He had finished, the smile still permeated His mask but the violet tears had thinned and were flaking away like ashes on an unfelt wind. Claws long and thin, tapered into dulled tips that couldn't even pierce mere paper let alone flesh and bone. Moonlight draped across His shoulders and the Assassin found a renewed surge of strength as He gazed upon His Creation.

Another of His had been Made.

Now it needed to be Born.

He held out a hand, bony fingers delicately touching upon the chin and raising the face upwards so that buttoned eyes met shadowed violet. A long, soft sigh flowed between them and what was fabric and cotton fluff became flesh and blood. What was once an innocent, if not slightly demented looking, toy became a living, breathing Terror.

The Terror would have been called a mutated cousin to a flamingo though never straight to her face and only by sheer dumb coincidence. True, hers was a body covered in fine, vibrant feathers but what little pink that gleamed was few and far between the splatters of ichor that covered her from head to clawed toes. She bore no wings but extended forelimbs that ended in thick, leathery claws. Her eyes gleamed with friendly warmth that did nothing to hide the blood that dribbled from her open and panting beak as she waved in greeting to—

" _Papa!_ "

He did not outwardly react to the Terror's greeting but inwardly the Assassin had many choice words to say in regards to that. This was why He preferred to Horrors and Nightmares to Horrors. Nightmares were far too brutish, too animalistic, to obey anything more than solidary commands whereas Horrors could think and plan with nigh robotic efficiency but that was all that differentiated them from their beastly Nightmare brethren. Horrors however are Sentient Creations. They can think with all the intelligence of a mortal mind and have primordial instincts to put the fiercest of predators to shame, but that pales in comparison to what truly separates them from Nightmares and Horrors.

They can feel Emotion, just as their Maker can.

And Terrors, even more so than their Maker, derive no greater feeling of Pleasure than to inflict their namesake upon any poor soul that crosses their path. It was why they called their Maker such titles as "Father." Because they, more than Horrors and Nightmares, are the truest and most favored of His Creations.

And they knew it.

More than that, they _reveled_ in it.

And the Assassin could not be more proud of them for it.

Because He had grown just human enough to comprehend that which was the Deadliest Sin of Mankind and what felled the Morning Star to the Blackened Ice of Hell's Heart…

Pride.

However, He could not allow even the Deadliest Sin to distract Him from His Task. He raised a clawed finger and pointed out into the city. The Terror followed it and smiled and all that was alive and all that knew Fear trembled. For a Terror alone is bad enough but one that feels Joy, a feeling that none born of Fear or associated with it should know let alone experience?

There is nothing more wretched.

The Terror's mouth slowly grew to be impossibly wide, the bloodied spittle flowing like crimson rivers from her fangs, and her vibrant pink coloration darkening underneath the ichor that spread like a vile pestilence across her feathers. Her panting grew to a fevered pitch, clawed hands twitching to grasp and strangle. Her whole body was trembling, pink feathers falling and ichor splattering but not once did her eyes stray from where the Assassin had pointed and the soul whom He commanded that she terrorize.

The Assassin snapped His fingers and the Terror was gone in an explosion of feathers and blood, her distorted laughter echoing on the wind that followed in her wake with a chorus of frightened shrieks a mere step behind.

The Assassin shook His head ruefully before He turned and looked to whom He had set His latest Terror upon and the small smile of His mask grew maddeningly wide once more.

 _"People say that it is better to lose Love than to never know Love at all."_

The Assassin was no stranger to His fellow Emotions, and while He delighted in testing the fortitude of Will and Hope, He was no stranger to the strongest of Emotion of them all for He and She worked together quite frequently, particular when one of Hers came to an end.

 _"Will you agree with that sentiment, child?"_

* * *

What is it like to die?

Is it silence and stillness, the final resting of the mind as the body that houses it shuts down completely? Could it really be that simple?

Is it hellfire and heavenly light, the first step to the grandest of adventures that no living soul could hope to describe though many have tried? Is it truly so extravagant?

Is it a recollection of the forgotten and remembrance of treasured moments, to see and experience everything anew from the painful regrets to the bittersweet experiences of the heart? Would it be so kind and yet so cruel?

 **"We know your name!"**

 _"We have always known it."_

To those who knew him for the soldier he had been, they would say that he had become familiar with Death. To they who feared him for the villain he is and the man who held no quarter in displaying his wickedness to allies and enemies alike, they would say that he was intimate with Death. Yet, the man himself, he who was a soldier and a villain, a man of his word and a silver-tongued snake, he would claim otherwise.

By his own experience firsthand in more ways than he cared to learn, Thomas Calvert would say that he knew nothing of Death despite the number of times that he had died.

True his deaths were of no substantial amount. It was hardly into the double digits range and he had ceased keeping track somewhere past the seventh, but he remembered them with perfect clarity save for one thing. Each and every time that he had died, he would immediately snap back to the timeline where he still lived and breathed.

 **"Do others come back?"**

 _"Those who do, wish they hadn't."_

The first few, it had been a careful and meticulous experimentation of his powers and, admittedly, the extent that he could allow of his ego. Those that followed were further examples that served to only temper his hubris but there was a smidgeon of curiosity to them. He was no masochist so he cared little for the agonies that his body could endure before death, though that did not stop him from testing those limits on anyone else, but there was something that always teased at him in the back of his mind.

Since the first time he had died, it had been nothing more than a half-forgotten dream. A faint whisper of discontent that only tickled lightly upon his consciousness when other, far more important, thoughts clouded and overpower it. Once, he had come close to being told upfront what these near nonexistent signs meant but the object of his pleasures and the venting of his frustrations had passed before she could do anything more than give one last vulpine grin in triumph.

He had dismissed the timeline and the untouched Tattletale in the same breath that day.

Thomas Calvert had, in his greatest pinnacle of pride when he had survived yet another inescapable demise, come to the conclusion that he was the World's first true Immortal. Being born a human and thus with a human conception of Time, Life, and Death, Thomas could not have known that Immortality is Creation's Greatest Lie. He could not know but soon, he would and be all the more wretchedly twisted for it.

 **"It thinks it can beat us!"**

 _"This is called… denial."_

Thomas Calvert could not have known what Tattletale had meant. Of the White Lamb and the Black Wolf. She had perished to an unseen arrow before she had chance to reveal the Truth of her words, the Truth that she realized with her dying breath and welcomed gladly.

Death is not a singular entity, even as an Embodiment for Death is too great, too powerful, to be so confined. It, like Life, is fractured into countless pieces spread across a multitude of lifetimes.

 _"Long have we shadowed your deeds woven across countless almost-lives, Thomas Calvert."_

 **"Turn and face us now, Coil!"**

 _Merciful Death_ shadowed Thomas Calvert.

 **Hungering Death** hunted Coil.

The arrows that pierced its way into his heart and straight through to his very soul told him so as he slipped away peacefully into a soft and welcoming embrace of ivory.

So too did the fangs of ebony, great and jagged and biting and gnawing and clawing and ripping and tearing his life from him with as much agony as could be inflicted on the soul which, as any denizen of the Circles of Hell could attest, can withstand more than any mortal could ever beget even in the worst of their nightmares.

But of course…

 _"All things, great and small…"_

 **"DIE."**

* * *

It is a common misconception that the best place to hold a private conversation is somewhere hidden, out of sight and thus out of mind. Someplace where not even the sharpest of senses can penetrate and gather whatever words are spoken. This is wrong simply for the fact that it is within the nature of all living things, human or otherwise, to make the unknown known, to see what is invisible to the eyes, and to hear what is not spoken.

As such, there is no better place than the middle of a crowd of people, where such things as "quiet" and "hushed" are completely nonexistent, where there is far too much to see and little time to witness it all, and what little is left to mystery is barely worth a second's contemplation.

Such a place was where Dinah Alcott had found him.

At a glance, he was a boy no older than herself and looking like he hadn't a care in the world. He leaned back in his chair outside the ice cream parlor, clearing enjoying his triple scoop special and completely heedless of the occasional questioning stare thrown his way. To be fair, such stares were warranted not for the fact that he was a kid out on his own, for Dinah herself had barely earned a second glance as she traversed the city, but for how blatantly he wore a necklace of gold carved into massive reptilian fangs around his neck.

The wind tousled his golden hair gently and his gleaming red eyes turned to Dinah and he wordlessly gestured at the seat across from him where another cup of ice cream sat, her favorite flavor no less.

The urge to utilize her powers rose again but she stamped down hard on it with only a minor twitch of annoyance as she took her seat and started on her ice cream. "You were expecting me?"

In answer, the boy took out a stopwatch and clicked it with a teasing smirk. "Five days, seven hours, and four minutes ago but yeah, we've been waiting for you to show up."

"We?"

"What, you thought that any one of us would wait for you that long? Please, we've got our Tasks to do and speaking to you isn't one of them. It's merely… oh, how did Assassin put it…? Professional courtesy. He sends His regards by the way and is glad that He was of service."

The twitch was back and the desire grew exponentially more but Dinah held strong. It had taken her that long because four of those five days were spent in near coma from overtaxing her powers beyond what she knew was safe. One nostril was still plugged with a piece of bloodied cotton and she had more waiting to be used in her pocket.

And imagine, all it took was asking just who, or rather _what_ , one of the Messenger's Servants was. It was pure misfortune that she chose to learn of the most inhuman one of the lot…

When she awoke, she had been surprised to find that her parents hadn't brought her to a hospital and frightened that the worst had happened only to find them perfectly fine save for the assumption that she had been in bed due to a bad case of the flu and not in a coma-like state. She had been concerned and had been about to use her powers again, consequences be damned, when her father suddenly handed her a letter addressed to her with only two solitary words as a return address.

The Messenger.

The letter was short, sweet and to the point and she was here as a result

"So what did the boss have to say about you using your powers to try and find out more about him?" asked the boy.

"… Don't." She grumbled. "Not if I don't want to go into a coma again…"

"Ah-ah! No lying!" The boy wagged his finger at her. "You _died_ , Miss Alcott! You would have stayed dead too if the risk of your power ending up in the wrong hands, so to speak, wasn't so great!"

Her eyes narrowed. There were few capes out there capable of utilizing the powers of dead parahumans though many required certain circumstances in order to work and, more to the point, they had to be aware that she had powers in the first place. She had made that mistake once already and had been pursued relentlessly as a result at least until…

Her eyes widened. _Until the Messenger appeared_ …

"Now then!" The young boy clapped his hands. "I have my Task still left to fulfill so I'll be brief with you and you can even use your powers to verify what I have to say. Deal?"

"… Deal."

"Alright then, first's things first, you and your family are safe from any harm be it direct or indirect. Of that you have my solemn word." The boy promised.

 _What is the likelihood of my family and I being purposefully injured or killed in the next year?_

 **0.00000%**

 _… Huh._ Dinah relaxed, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of the World had at last been taken off her—

"The World is still going to end in a year though."

… And there it was again and with interest.

 _Likelihood of the World ending within a year?_

 **100.0000%**

The timetable that she had was thrown out the window. Every morning when she awoke, she would ask the same questions, trying to narrow down the cause and effect of the answers she received. Dinah Alcott knew that the world was going to end in two years. Knew this with absolute certainty. She'd waste precious questions to try and find ways of pushing it back.

She never bothered to see if the timetable had been moved forward.

 _Oh God…!_

The boy shrugged carelessly. "It's part of the bargain between the Messenger and his boss, so to speak. Your earlier predication was accurate and could be prevented but it was deemed that the costs were too high. Now at least we have a fifty-fifty chance."

"A fifty-fifty chance?" She asked incredulously. "To save the World?"

"To save Humanity _and_ the World." The boy chuckled but it was an empty sound and for a moment, Dinah could swear she saw the shadow of the boy, older and with far more disdain in his crimson gaze sneering at her in clear revulsion.

"There's a clear difference between the two that most fail to realize. We succeed at our tasks and the World keeps on turning and Humanity gets a second chance." He shrugged. "We fail… well, either way the World as Humanity knows it to be will end. It'll just end on Her own terms that's all and Humanity will just be another bookmark lost amidst the countless pages of Destiny's Book."

Dinah's eyes narrowed at the boy's words. _… Likelihood of the World having a con—_

"Oops, hold that thought!" The boy tapped her on the nose. "Trust me, you do _not_ want the answer to that question. You'll sleep a lot better at night not knowing it. Well, better than you do now I'm sure. Now if you want to help our odds, focus on everyone but the Boss and my fellow Servants alright? We're doing our part in this with the least amount of bloodshed that we can but make no mistake, if sacrifices need to be made it will be swift and without prejudice. Got it?"

There it was again, that feeling like there was more than what he was saying. "So that's it then? Does the Messenger even have a plan to stop this?"

"Oh gods, like you wouldn't believe." The boy bemoaned with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Plans with plans, agendas within agendas… If it makes you feel any better though… Do you remember the likelihood of an S-Class parahuman threat occurring in Brockton Bay within a few months?"

She did. She had checked just this morning along with a few other odds, including the chances of the World ending in two years. _One_ _year now…_ "98.16000%."

He blinked but kept his teasing smile. "What is it now?"

At his question, her powers provided the answer and Dinah's jaw dropped.

"Zero percent."

"Now comes the million dollar question. Having been aware that there was an S-Class parahuman threatening the city, would you have utilized your powers to find a way to neutralize it or stop it?"

"Neutralize." Her powers bid her to answer and Dinah cocked her head in confusion. "But they're the same thing."

"Nope. Not in the way powers work. Conflict breeds powers and powers breed conflict. Try as you would to help in any way that you could, your answers would always point towards the one that results in the highest amount of conflict possible while still fitting in the parameters to your question."

She looked at him in clear disbelief.

He sighed, "Alright then, answer me this Dinah Alcott. What is the likelihood that your powers would provide you with an answer that ensures the highest amount of conflict possible while fitting to the parameters of your question?"

"One Hundred Percent." She blinked. _… No… No, it's not possible…!_

But the boy was far from done.

"What is the likelihood that your powers are derived from one of two possible alien sources, both having existed long before this humanity in its present form?"

"One Hundred Percent." Her eyes widened. _Oh no way…!_

"What is the likelihood that your powers, and those of other parahumans, are sapient with a sense of will on their own?"

"One Hundred Percent." And now her mouth was hanging loose in a stunned gape. _Wha-?_

"What is—?"

"Stop!" Dinah pleaded, hand pressing against her temple to stave off the migraine that battered at her skull like a herd of rams. "I… I get it, alright?"

"… Yeah, I suppose that you do. At least in part." He drank the remains of his ice cream and stood up from his seat. "Listen, I get that you want to help us but the fact is that we know more of what's at stake than you could possibly begin to fathom. If you want to make a difference, and I mean a real difference, then why don't you start somewhere small and starting working up from there? Take it from a former Archer, Miss Alcott, sometimes you got to aim for the smaller weak spots to take down the bigger threat."

With that he turned and walked away, vanishing into the passing crowd near instantly. Dinah swallowed and took up her cup of ice cream, somewhat surprised to find it hardly melted. She glanced down at the magazine that the boy, the Archer, had been reading before her arrival. A tabloid magazine about the latest court case involving a parahuman, Paige Mcabee, and from the doodles that Archer had drawn on the faces of everyone but the defendant herself, a kangaroo court case if ever there was one.

 _Aim somewhere small to take down something big huh…_

* * *

To anyone that knew him, Trickster was not one to trust easily or freely. Not without the right button being pressed. It did not take a genius to see what it was that Trickster, or Francis Krouse outside of the mask, had one weakness above all others. One thing that could allow him to hurt, and perhaps even kill, without a moment's hesitation. Not even those whom he considered as friends or allies were safe from him should this one weakness of his be exploited.

But then, what greater weakness is there than Love?

For his love, for his Noelle, he would do anything that was within his power to accomplish. He had become a villain for her. He had all but forced their friends to do the same, and had denied and ignored the truth of what his love had unwillingly become even when the evidence was lying splattered on the ground, the walls, and even the ceiling.

Noelle had become a monster, but it was as much a physical transformation as it was a psychological one and Francis Kruse, the Trickster, would move Heaven and Hell alike to find a cure, to restore the woman he loved from the monster that she had become.

It was for that reason and that reason alone that he allowed the strange young woman's presence at Noelle's door, deep within the bowels of Coil's headquarters. He kidded himself in believing that the door was there for Noelle's protection. His friends knew that it was more for them than anyone else, Noelle included. For though she tried and tried, her monstrous form was ensnared deeply by an insatiable need for consumption. She had to be fed at an hourly basis and with ever increasing quantities or what little of her human side that remained would be lost to the ravenous rampages of a hellion beast.

The Travelers knew this. So did Francis no matter how deep he buried the knowledge.

This young woman, who couldn't have been much older than Francis himself now that he was really looking at her, stood outside a monster's door and had claimed to know it too. Had spoken outright of the long list of Noelle's deeds and all the names attributed to those few instances of lost control like she was reciting a grocery list. She knew all that Noelle had done, could do, and what the Travellers had done, would do, to protect her and yet…

She was not afraid.

Rather, she was amused. Of what little they could see of her face beneath her hood, her lips, painted a viscous purple, were quirked in a half smile that was equal parts condescending sneer and cruel bemusement.

She knew the dangers behind the door and found them lacking.

Francis steadfastly ignored the cold shiver that traveled down his spine and focused on the one whom he claimed would solve all of their problems.

Whoever she was, she was distinctly of the upper class. The way she walked, the way that she had looked at them, Francis could see it. Had seen it, in those teams that consisted of kids that had more money than experience in the art of gaming, especially in a team. Her robes and dress, or what little of it that he could see, brought to mind the mages from one of the few roleplaying games that Noelle had introduced him back… Back before everything went to Hell.

"You can really do it? You can help Noelle?" He asked her. He steadfastly ignored the shivers that traversed down his spine as her gaze left him for Noelle's door.

The young woman seemed amused at the question, "I wish to speak with her first."

"… Why do you need to speak to her?" Francis asked.

She smiled and Francis felt his heart clench at the sight. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying, heartwarming as it was heartbreaking. It was the smile of one who had lost more than she had love, whom had her trust rewarded with betrayal again and again until it was all that she knew.

"I want to see how long your resolve towards her welfare will remain when she betrays you all. **μαγευτική κύκλο**."

Whatever response he had to that statement was caught tightly in Francis' throat as he and his fellow Travelers became as stone in almost every sense of the word. Their hearts still beat beneath their chests, their lungs still expanded and contracted with every breath, but no more and no less. Their muscles were locked tight, their powers all but dead in the ether, and their eyes…

" **Ξίφη της αποκάλυψης Φωτός**."

Well, their eyes were trapped, simple as that.

For hovering in the air before and around them, were Swords. Not mere blades of steel and iron, for such things may bring one to a halt, deathly so at that, blades such as these knew no such thing as harm or death.

Only Truth.

 **Ξίφη της αποκάλυψης Φωτός** **… _Xífi tis apokálypsis Fotós_ ** in the Grecian dialect and loosely translated into the English language it means _Swords of Revealing Light_. A spell that can hold anything short of a minor god or nature spirit and where nothing but Time is allowed to move. However, Time is a fickle thing and the spell, while arguably one of the most powerful binding invocations known to mortals, has a lifespan of exactly three minutes.

Not much time for anything some would say, especially when faced with such adversaries that could throw miniaturized suns like softballs and turn pebbles into ballistic missiles with a flick of the wrist. To those who know of the immeasurable preciousness that is a mere sliver of Time however, three minutes is enough. For while great lengths of Time can bring about change, all it takes is a single moment for that change to be enacted.

Three minutes was all it took for the Travellers to see who they are in truth and not in the lies and falsehoods they set upon themselves. For some, it was a strangely reassuring thing. They saw that even with all the power to cause irrevocable harm to others and even to themselves they were not cruel, vicious, or even monstrous.

Save one.

Francis Krouse did not trust. Not fully or freely, and to those that earned it that trust was tenuous at best. He knew at the slightest hint of betrayal that he too would betray in kind with greater intensity. He would make them hurt and would gladly kill without a moment's hesitation. What were friends? What are allies?

Nothing.

Nothing at all compared to the one that mattered most to him, the source of his great weakness.

For his heart, for his Noelle, he would hurt the innocent and the guilty alike. He would betray his closest friends and dearest of allies. He would even kill anyone and everyone that stood between him and her, from newborn child to elderly adult. He would do it all and gladly if it meant her safety and her happiness.

Because for all that Noelle Meinhardt was a monster in form, Francis Krouse was twice so in his heart of hearts.

Were it not for the Swords, bile would have arisen in his throat, hot tears pouring ceaselessly from his eyes, and his voice a constant repetition of weakening denial as the Truth of Francis Krouse was presented in all of its unedited glory.

Because for all that he was a monster, horrible and terrible to the core, Noelle was still there.

And she loved him still when others would have condemned him.

Love was his weakness, but so too was it his strength.

For without it, Francis would have been broken beyond repair the moment the Swords dissipated into the ether and the circle of mystical runes beneath his and the others' feet faded into the Nothingness once more. He collapsed to his knees, a state that was similarly shared by his family — _not friends not allies FAMILY_ — but Francis swiftly found his gaze upon the open door to Noelle's room and he remembered then the words that were spoken as the Truth was shown into his eyes with steely brilliance.

 _"Do it. Open the door. And make sure that one shot counts…"_

"No…" His knees trembled, legs refusing to cooperate as he dredged up all of his slowly returning strength.

 _"Can you hear me? … Kill me… KILL ME!"_

"Noelle…" Hands clenched tightly, fingernails piercing through cloth and flesh alike to the sound of grinding teeth.

" ** _KILLMEKILLMEKILLMEKILLME!_** "

"NOELLE!" He roared, his voice echoing throughout the vast underground facility. Even closed tightly as they are, did not stop the rivulets of tears.

 _"I love you… all of you… Remember that… please…"_

And the Trickster was gone with a whoosh of displaced air and in the darkness where his shadow once resided, a Horror passed from this World, her Task complete.

* * *

Her Design was what had granted him the First. Pure chance had rewarded him with the Second. Meticulous planning had called upon the Third. A daring question of possibility made the improbably impossibility of the Fourth. Unprecedented conviction had bestowed upon him the Fifth. Undeniable foolishness had allowed him two in the price of one for the Sixth.

Six of the Seven had been called, three of who were never meant to be, not in accordance to the Rules of the War. However, he was not bound by those Rules but by Her Decree, Her Task to him and to the People of this World and so he was given some leeway.

Some.

He had bound an Emotion into a corporeal form and limited it down to a degree of Human sapience that rightfully should have left him unconscious for weeks from the strain. Yet he remained standing albeit on shaken legs before Fear as He stood and smiled beneath a tear-stained mask of ivory white and whispered lowly in _Her Voice_ that Assassin made for a fine choice.

He had taken an Aspect of Creation, a sliver if even that much, and would have died outright if it hadn't been for Caster's spells that made put him on equal grounds to a Servant in fortitude. As it was, he still nearly died from the strain and it wasn't until several days had come and gone, wasted in his hidden corners away from those who sought him for good and ill both.

Now, here he was attempting to call forth the Seventh, the Last, of the Servants.

He had a hero without peer in this world. He had a knight of great renown. He had a king of treasures immeasurable. He had an aspect of Fear Itself. He had an enchantress betrayed by gods and men alike. He even had a sliver of Death so minute as to be divided in twain, and still he wanted—he _needed_ more.

No. Not he.

Humanity.

So it was that he allowed not his will or Hers to guide the summoning but that of Humanity itself.

 **What A Fool.**

He stiffened, the words still escaping through his lips, his body going through the ritualistic motions even as Her Voice murmured gently upon his very soul.

 **You Forget What It Is That Humanity Craves Above Everything.**

She had not spoken to him for so long that, were it not for the Assassin's own vindictiveness, he'd have forgotten the sound of it and be all the gladder for it.

 **What Humanity Desires More Than Even Its Own Preservation.**

Her Will coursed through him and for once, he fought Her Will with his own, a droplet of rain against an ocean but a single drop was all that is needed to cause a cup to overflow. She had what She, what Humanity Itself, Desired. The Messenger had what Humanity Needed.

 **An Ending.**

Across the World, from deep beneath the crust to the recesses of space, those whom rightfully earned the title of Endbringer flinched. From her orbiting roost opposite of the moon, the Simurgh turned her gaze downwards to the World she encircled first with interest and then with an emotion that she did not realize she was capable of feeling.

Fear.

* * *

The fire is dwindling, hoarfrost flowing in the veins like a mountainous avalanche. The poison pouring down into the gullet, enticing the blood to harden like steel and burn like ice. Too much, too cold, too fast, dying… Breaths shallow, fire dwindling, heat fading… Burn! Loose what little is left at the World, burn it all to stave away the deathly chill. It's not enough. The ice rushes faster, predators upon a weakened prey. Death is coming, darkness encroaching from all around, the fire fading to embers…

The King is dying.

The Heirs are dying with it.

They scream and claw and scratch and howl. They pull at each other, struggling to wrench themselves free even as their flesh tears asunder to leave bare bones and fraying muscles beneath, pushing down their brothers and their sisters if it means Life. The First rises, using the last of its great and terrible power to loose one final howl upon the World that birthed it and forsook it and dies on its feet, the Offspring frozen solid in their deathly bid for freedom.

They are dead. The King and most of the Heirs…

Most, but not all…

One Heir to the Crown still lives.

Just not in the same World as the King or the Predecessors to the Throne.

This is what he knows, not what he remembers. He knows a life not his own but a life lived regardless.

He remembers sunshine, blue skies and green grass … a life that once was his but a lifetime ago when the World was Wild and Untamed.

He crashes down, feet crumbling the asphalt, claws gouging the concrete and masonry, eyes wide and horrific in their blank intensity as the World suddenly begins to make sense again. He stumbles into the darkness of an alleyway, his weak and trembling form small enough to be well out of sight of any prying eyes. He shuffles into the furthest corner, massive tail dragging like dead weight and every step the sound of thunder on the horizon. He hunkers down low, clawed hands grasping at an alien visage, neither wholly human nor reptilian but a sick amalgamation of both.

It comes to him then, the horrible and undeniable truth.

He isn't Alive.

Not anymore.

Nor is he Dead.

Not truly.

His head rises upwards, wide and unblinking eyes looking heavenward with jaw dropping low to loose a howl only to pause as another sound is made amidst the night. He smells the same stench that perpetrated the nostrils of the First.

Iron. Smoke. Ash.

 _Blood, fire, and something else…_ He realizes. _Death,_ he concludes.

The gunshots though do not compare to another sound. A sound very much like a call, a declaration…

 _A challenge_.

His bony fingers clench into a pair of tight fists before he rises to his feet.

The night is illuminated in great bursts of flame, and he walks towards it, welcoming its familiar and welcoming heat. He arrives at the edge of the alleyway and looks out from the shadows with wide and focused eyes. What he sees, he would not believe if he were in his former state.

A dragon, alien in shape and design but clearly a beast of legend brought to life and bound in the mortal coil with man's flesh, and there, trying to fight its ensuing wrath, a group consisting of extraordinary teenagers and though he could hardly make them out, there was one in the group that brought his train of thought to a crashing halt.

A girl garbed in spiders silk surrounded in a swarm of insects.

He vaguely recognizes the dragon, but he _knows_ the girl.

His mouth moves soundlessly to her name. There is no tongue there, not yet. Like the flesh of his body, it is still forming, still growing, into its new shape and function. He recognizes where he is now though he doesn't comprehend the how or why. For a moment, he considers a notion that he is like her, in essence, but the dragon — _Lung—_ looses another roar, flames gushing forward and incarnating the swarm that flies at her beck and call.

 _Fire… Don't I have fire?_

He did. He could feel it, thumping within the reactor of a heart but to the likes of Lung, it was an ember if even that much. The call to Fight is strong but the rumble in his innards is stronger. The need, the desire, to feed is a great and terrible beast and its claw gouge deep though he has no true stomach or any kind of organ resembling one. He feels it all around him, the minute traces of the Power that he hungers for and those few places where larger quantities of it are stored in wait but he cannot go to them.

To do so would mean to retreat from the challenge.

And even now when he was weak and pathetic, he hardly knew the word.

Above, a rumble of thunder echoes. A storm is on the horizon but by the feel of the wind upon his naked and ripped flesh, it will not make landfall. Yet, the stinging cry of lightning, far though it is, brings to mind a memory not his own and with it, an idea.

His skeletal hand reach out along the wall of the nearest building, finding and tracing a thick cord to a small box. With nary a twitch, his claw pierced through the metal and cables beneath and lightning coursed through his body. His mouth hung low in a soundless moan as sinew began to knit over bare and empty bones, flesh flowing over bleeding muscles. Across the district, each and every lit light flashed brightly before the box overloaded with a soft sound of exploding sparks and several lights falling still and dark. He removed his hand from the transformer and clenched both of his hands open and close, open and close.

They were not a human's hands. These hands were thin, wiry even, but were of a reptilian hide to put the strongest of steels to shame. They were not the hands of the First, weak in their grasping and useless in their strength. These were big, strong hands. At his weakest, he tore through stone and steel like tissue paper. What would it mean then if he were at his strongest? He did not know and did not care enough to learn. For now, the Thirst had been quenched, the Hunger silenced.

 _Now I can_ **_fight_**.

* * *

Tattletale was not one to consider herself a hero by any means. She was far too selfish for that. Yet, she never really thought herself a straight up villain either for though her moral fiber was a bit bent and maybe even a smidge twisted, there were lines that she wouldn't cross and concerns that no matter how hopeless, she'd never back down from. The new cape on the block, a rookie out on her first night no less, getting involved in a fight against Lung simply because of a simple, yet not entirely untrue, misunderstanding that Lung and his gang were gunning after a group of kids.

That said kids consisted of the Undersiders might have changed the rookie's plan somewhat but in the end, what did it matter? She took out Lung's gang faster than they could react and was going against Lung, _freaking Lung_ , on her own.

Tattletale might think that the rookie was a complete and utter idiot… but she had guts.

Now to guarantee that those guts didn't end up splattered all over the place alongside the rest of the Undersiders' that would be really—

The ground trembled and for the briefest microsecond, Tattletale passed it off as a result of Lung who was already well over thirty feet in height, minus his serpentine tail, and growing larger when her powers provided the answer.

 _Impact tremor. Footsteps. **BIG footsteps.**_

Tattletale turned her head just slightly to catch sight of the source and what she saw stole her breath away. Her powers spoke to her, whispered at the back of her mind and for the first time since she had gotten them, gave conflicting results to what she was seeing.

 _Is a Monster **Human**. Was **Alive** Dead now **Dead** Alive again. Is **Powerful** Weak, It Can **Not** Be Stopped._

Conflicting save for one solid and indisputable fact.

 ** _The King_** _Has Come To Reclaim His **Throne**._

* * *

Even when she began this delusional escapade, this foolish notion of becoming a hero, Taylor Hebert had not expected to meet such a being so soon into her career never mind having her first true team-up escapade. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps an Endbringer would appear on the scene next, perhaps in the company of one of the Triumvirate, but passed such a notion aside as adrenaline fueled thinking. Her luck was bad but it could not possibly be that bad.

The earth trembling beneath her feet to the tread of one several magnitudes larger than Lung bade Taylor to curse at her luck with every foul word she had ever heard drew her attention. Her insects were next, and though their eyes are far from ideal even in the darkness of an ill-lit city street, what they saw so too could she.

And what Taylor saw stole her breath away to such degree that she had all but frozen on the spot, an opportunity that Lung took with gusto. He snapped her up in his great and terrible claws as his fanged maw opened wide to roast or devour, he was torn as to which, when the Dragon who thought himself a King came fist to face with the Monster who was the True Heir to the Crown.

The force of the blow was great enough to shatter even a dragon's bones, and Lung was sent reeling head over tail before slamming into and through a building as the resulting explosion of noise shattered every glass window within a mile. Taylor screamed as the world spun around her before she was caught deftly in another clawed and monstrous hand. She looked up into wide and lidless eyes that stared down at her with a strangely human intensity before she was carefully set down upon a nearby rooftop. The monster stepped back from the building, the earth shaking with every step he took, and turned to face the rising and snarling Lung.

The draconic parahuman wondered at this new opponent as his jaw snapped back into proper formation and he swelled larger in size and form. He entertained the notion that he was facing a parahuman whose powers were akin to his own but just as swiftly dismissed it. His animalistic instincts, which only grew sharper as he became more and more his True Self, were all but screaming at him in a manner he had only felt once before. When he had faced the Leviathan on his own and _won._ Looking at this strange amalgamation of saurian and human, of living and decay, Lung felt his blood _burn_ with something he had not felt for a long, long time.

Excitement.

With a roar to make the heavens tremble down to their foundations, Lung charged at the titanic beast—

SNAP!

Only to fall to the ground once more as the monster's great and terrible tail struck him low with another blow to his face. A casual turn by the creature and Lung was tossed aside like a ragdoll, neck twisting and breaking from the strike, fangs scattering like hail and pieces of his jaw falling in meaty chunks. Lung growled low in his throat, waiting in eager and mounting fury for his body to regenerate into a more powerful form when the beast's foot came down upon his torso with a force of several magnitudes.

Lung's ribs shattered to kindling, his bones piercing into every major organ and more besides beneath the creature's grinding heel as it reach down and grasped ahold of his broken jaw and held it open. Lung glared up into the monster's eyes and to his surprise saw a thin, almost metallic, nictitating membrane slide over the creature's eyes before its own mouth opened impossibly wide with the lower jaw spreading out like that of a serpent. A violet light began to shine in the back of the beast's throat and Lung's eyes widened in horrified realization before a rushing wave of fire erupted from the creature's mouth and down into his own.

 _It's too easy…_

The Heir's hellish assault stopped when reptilian scales started to fall away, revealing pale and burned human flesh. His flames died in a puff of acrid, discolored smoke before he threw Lung's head, miraculously attached to his now shrinking neck, to the ground.

 _Far too easy to lose control…_

Of the flames that burned beneath his torn but slowly healing flesh that could annihilate the entire city in a massive explosion of radiation to make the atom bombs that twice touched upon the Earth pale by comparison.

Of the animalistic instincts arisen from a body that was all of several minutes old.

Of the memories that still lay within his grasp but were as water in his malformed hands if he was not careful in how he clutched them to his heart.

 _Still… it was rather **fun wasn't it…?**_

The rush in his veins was slowly starting to fade, his breathing not even the slightest bit ragged and yet he felt so exhilarated, like he'd run a hundred miles and could go another hundred more. He had not even loosed the full force of his power, using only just enough to produce mere, if not extraordinarily hot, flames down Lung's gullet. Fireproof the gang leader might be on the outside the dragon-man's insides were another matter entirely.

He huffed, silently cursing at his lack of an actual—No, wait there was the sensation of meat in his mouth where there once was none. The slab of muscle in his mouth moved as his old tongue did… Perhaps…?

 **"YOU… ALRIGHT?"** His voice rumbled like stones tumbling from a mountainous peak and it grated against his ears and tore at his throat with every word but it hardly bothered him. It was odd that he wasn't having a massive mental breakdown but then, he was focusing more on the moment rather than himself.

He turned to the rooftop where he had placed Taylor, ignoring the Undersiders as they made a slow but rushed retreat, and found her standing perfectly still midway down a fire escape. He saw her head bob in an almost boneless nod, which admittedly amused him somewhat. Here she had faced one of the sole parahumans that had stood against a living apocalypse and survived only to be awed by a man-turned-monster that could still speak in a somewhat sensible fashion.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and called up to him, "Who are you?"

Who. Not what. He… appreciated that. Yet, the question remained.

 _Who am I now?_

He had a name but could not remember it. The King from whence his body had been born from had a name but was it right for him to take it as his own? Perhaps someday, when he had earned the crown that rested unseen upon his brow but here, now, with all but a lone victory?

 **"… I AM…"** A pause of consideration before resignation took the reigns and he loosed a loud, rumbling sigh. **"BERSERKER…"**

* * *

 _To Be Continued..._


End file.
